


Famous First Words

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [36]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yves makes an impression and he hasn't really started talking yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Famous First Words

"The average second-year officer -- no, don't, Mama needs that -- "

"WA BAAABABABA!"

" -- has had enough time to -- Yves, no -- has had enough -- "

"Eeble beh behbaba!"

Jean-Luc looked up from the book he was reading when Deanna's dictation halted and Yves made frustrated sounds. She sat at the desk, Yves in her lap, patiently removing their son's fingers from her hair. The sticky purple ring around his mouth was from one of the Betazoid sweets she sometimes gave him as a treat after dinner. He'd been holding the sweet in the hand he'd used to grab some of her curls, and now it was stuck in her hair.

She had been holding him at her suggestion; the computer could be instructed to ignore his babbling. Yves made reading while holding him impossible regardless of the media used. He'd already ripped a few pages of a paper book and insisted on playing with padds, finding the controls infinitely fascinating and the padd itself quite tasty, or at least a good gnaw.

"Yves, want to come over here?"

He waved and grinned. "BAWA!"

"Go to Papa," Deanna said, putting him on the floor. He left purple hand prints and streaks on the carpet in a wide wandering arc, taking a left turn at the sight of his stuffed targ on the floor near the table. Half-crawling, half-scooting on his stomach, and wiggling like an eel got him where he wanted to go. As he began nibbling on the targ's nose, Jean-Luc set aside the book and went after him.

"Someone needs a bath," he said, picking up child and toy.

"And a volume control. Say 'Papa,'" Deanna prompted, pulling at the sticky mass in her hair.

"BAPABABA!" A gooey hand struck Jean-Luc's chin as he settled the toddler in his arms.

"I think that was the closest yet," Jean-Luc said, enduring a face-grab and an ear-pull.

"He's being exceptionally busy tonight."

"What makes it so exceptional? I'll clean him up and take him for a walk so you can finish."

"Thanks," she said, smiling fondly at them and cocking an eyebrow. "I'll make it up to you later."

"Something I'll remind you of, if necessary." He carried the baby into the nursery. Yves sat in the small tub in the corner with Mr. Tiggles while Jean-Luc wrestled his clothes off one limb at a time. Deanna's dictation resumed in the background, but Yves drowned it out with a steady stream of syllables. His latest discovery, 'ga', came out every so often to break up the monotony of the other sounds he knew.

"EEEEEH!" he squealed, throwing Mr. Tiggles to the floor. "Bapapaba ga baba!"

"That's very interesting," Jean-Luc said, picking him up to run the bath. "I suppose you're going to tell me the secret password now?"

"Bab bab aga. AGAGagagagagagaaaah."

"And that will open the door to the crypt?"

"IGIGIga. Bapaba. Ab ab ab ab. . . ."

"But what about the zombie hordes? They'll come after us if we're not careful."

Yves did his best to put most of the bath water on the walls and on Jean-Luc, smacking and flinging and spitting mouthfuls of it, but at least by the end the purple sticky was gone. He giggled through being dried and managed to let fly before Jean-Luc could get another diaper on him.

"Now you need a bath," Deanna said, grinning, when he took a clean baby in a blue-striped outfit out to her and put him in her lap. "Are you inflicting one of those gruesome bedtime stories on him again? Zombies?"

"We were discussing last night's story, for your information. He was telling me how it should have been written."

"His aim is improving too. Last time the stain was lower than that."

"If you'd had a girl first, this wouldn't be a problem."

"You get what you get, when you leave it up to chance. Don't you do that while you're drenched in baby juice -- go change," she exclaimed when he tried to lean in for a kiss.

"Next time, Cordelia," he said, heading in to clean off sticky baby handprints and change clothes.

"Amy first, then Cordelia -- and later," Deanna called after him over the rising flow of baby chatter. "One at a time in diapers, thank you."

He returned to the living room after a change and a face-washing and took Yves again. While the baby yanked fistfuls of his shirt, Jean-Luc got the kiss he'd been denied and left her to work on the paper she'd been trying to write for a month.

"Habababphtttthhhhh," Yves blurted, drooling.

"That's easy for *you* to say," Jean-Luc muttered. Yves' forehead bumped his chin. The only way to keep him from fearlessly launching himself from Papa's arms was to hold him with both arms, chest to chest.

The instant they entered Ten Forward, they became the center of attention. People who knew Yves greeted him, and those who didn't see him on a regular basis stared. While Jean-Luc took a seat at the usual table, Yves babbled at the small gathering around them and head-butted his father's shoulder.

"He's so cute," one of the women gushed, adding as an afterthought, "sir."

"Thank you. Yves, no," he said, rearranging the baby in his lap before he could crawl up on the table.

"BABWAGAH!" Yves protested, reaching, straining for the nice shiny gray surface he wanted to get on.

"No."

Pouty noises followed. Jean-Luc distracted him by aiming him at Guinan, who had brought over a cup of tea. "Bweeb," he said happily, pointing at his babysitter.

"What can I get you, Yves?" Guinan smiled and placed the saucer and cup out of easy reach.

"Blbgaaah babababab!"

"Nothing sticky," Jean-Luc said. She nodded, understanding completely, and moved off.

"He's very vocal," one of the lieutenants commented. An engineer, and not someone they saw on a routine basis. The crowd had dwindled to a few such people. "I've never seen such a noisy seven-month-old."

"The noise matches the activity level, most of the time."

Yves bounced and pried at a fastener on the front of Papa's dark blue shirt. "EeeeYAH," he cried, twisting and smacking the table with both hands. "BabwaAAH!" A shove and a wiggle, and one knee almost reached the edge.

"No," Jean-Luc repeated patiently, pulling him back again. He whimpered; smoothing his dark curls and hugging him seemed to be enough to soothe him, for the moment.

Guinan brought him one of the biscuits she made especially for him -- a chewable yet firm white disk, nothing like a Terran biscuit. Perfect for Yves because it would endure the sogginess and occasional table-banging.

"What's the good word?" Guinan asked as she handed the biscuit to her smallest regular customer.

"PAPA!" he yelled, jamming the biscuit in his mouth and bending backward to look up at his father.

The onlookers cheered the occasion, which Jean-Luc was certain was nothing but a random connection of syllables. Still, he smiled down at the gnawing, drooling baby and, when the onlookers finally left them alone, whispered encouragement for him to say it again.

"Nnnneeeeeeeh," Yves told the first person they met as they left Ten Forward.

"Good, now tell me what this is," Jean-Luc said, squeezing his foot. The crewman blinked and did a double-take.

"Gaaa-mph," Yves said, chomping on the biscuit.

"That's actually Betazoid," Jean-Luc told the crewman as he strode away.

They met three women outside the lift on deck nine, all in civvies. They weren't crew -- that was obvious in the way they stared after him if nothing else, and he smiled in passing. The *Enterprise* was delivering Federation scientists, Starfleet officers, and supplies to a new base on the other side of the Bajoran wormhole, a simple enough task. Making the run through to the base had been assigned to some of the larger vessels at regular intervals since the end of the war.

"That's so sweet," one of them said quietly. "I wish my father took that much interest in my daughter."

Jean-Luc slowed down and whispered, "Papa."

"PAPA!" It coincided with a whack of moist biscuit on his chin, but Jean-Luc didn't mind at all.

"I'm right here, you don't have to shout," he replied, patting his son on the back. They continued their walk, chatting in Yvish, as Deanna called it. "Say 'ma.'"

"BA!"

"Mama."

"BAMA!"

"Mama."

"BABabmmmm. . . BAPA."

"Bo."

Yves considered it for a while, as he sometimes did when they introduced a new syllable. "Ba."

"Bo."

"Ba-o. Bababab."

Another group loitered in a corridor outside an observation area in section two. From the murmur of voices drifting out an open door, there was a gathering, either a meeting or party, in progress.

"Ba!" Yves hit Papa's shoulder with his biscuit, crumbs of it spraying down. "BaBAbaba."

They passed the man and two women, who watched them curiously. Jean-Luc endured another ear-grab as he shifted Yves to the side to relieve a tired arm. "I need that, don't pull."

Yves lunged, his hand missing Jean-Luc's face and landing on his chest. His head bumped Jean-Luc's jaw. "Bweababa."

Smiling, Jean-Luc reached another observation area, actually an extension of the last if a movable wall were taken out. In the empty room he put Yves on the floor, tucking the soggy biscuit in a pocket. Since there was no furniture here at the moment the baby could crawl around without risking collision. Yves scooted away, chanting 'bap bap' and pounding his hands down on the carpet.

"Hello."

He realized as he heard the greeting that the door hadn't closed behind him. Turning, he forgot for a moment that his son needed minding. Nella had followed him in, looking just the same as the last time he'd seen her, but out of uniform, wearing a conservative variegated soft brown dress. He scrambled to remember the roster Deanna had put on his desk. He hadn't read the entire passenger list, but he thought he remembered getting as far as the D's.

"You're still here," she said, coming further into the room. The door shut behind her. "The *Enterprise* I mean. And you look just the same."

"I was just thinking the same about you -- and that I hadn't seen your name on the manifest. Don't tell me you're traveling under an alias?"

She laughed, soft and low, and shook her head. "Oh, no. Just a new name. I see I'm not the only one who's had some changes?" She had seen his ring, from the angle of her gaze. Yves tugged on his pants, drawing his attention, and made a pleading noise.

"Yes, several changes -- this one is quite demanding.

"BWA!" Yves struck Papa's leg. His hand slid and he fell forward, banging his head on Jean-Luc's shoe. Immediately he screamed and cried.

As Jean-Luc scooped him up the predictable response from Maman came. {Jean?}

{Banged his head -- he looks fine. Upset, that's all.}

{What about you?}

He realized that this room was almost directly beneath their quarters on deck eight. His sense of her was strong. Smoothing his son's hair and checking for damage while Yves wailed, he glanced at Nella again, trying not to feel so off-balance. {Did you know Nella Darren was one of our passengers?}

{No, but that explains how you feel. Are you bringing her up for a visit? I'm about to finish for the night.}

Yves quieted to sniffles and threw himself at Papa, clinging to his neck. "The flying head-to-shoe maneuver always upsets him," Jean-Luc said. "So, you changed your name to?"

"Mueller. Old-fashioned of me. Brandon kept telling me I didn't have to. Is this your son, or do starship captains have to babysit these days?"

Even her gentle amusement made him uncomfortable. Yves, in his swiftly-turning mood, threw his weight backward, twisting toward Nella. He seemed to realize she was there for the first time and stared. She came closer and smiled at him.

"Never mind. He has your eyes. What's your name, little man?"

Yves' head jerked as he reoriented on Papa's face. For some reason, he turned shy, ducking forward until his head bumped Jean-Luc's cheek. "Papa," he said breathily, grabbing the collar of his shirt.

"Yves just figured out how to say that. I'm not sure yet if he's associated it with me."

"I think he has. What beautiful hair." Nella laid a hand on the cap of fine black curls.

"Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee, or tea? Dee's finishing a paper she's trying to write. I was only getting Yves and his noisemaking out of her way for a while."

"Dee," Nella echoed uncertainly.

"Deanna. You've met, I'm sure. She was ship's counselor." So many things went unspoken in that definition. 'The one who gave me permission to see you. The one who said I could maintain a shipboard romance without compromising. The one who was wrong once, but ultimately correct.'

"Oh -- her," she exclaimed, smiling again. "Betazoid, and the hair -- of course."

They left the room. She hesitated and glanced at the other door. "I should tell Brandon."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't clear -- I meant both of you, of course."

"I'll get him." She sounded relieved. While waiting with Yves tugging at his ear and resuming the babbling, Jean-Luc knew why. He'd felt relief when Deanna had suggested bringing Nella up.

As if drawn by the thought of her, he felt the heart connection between them open, and Deanna seemed to embrace him. {Are you all right, Jean-Fish?}

Asking was but a gesture. She already knew the answer. {Yves said 'papa' several times. I think he might be using it in context.}

{Now if only he'd start on 'mama' I wouldn't feel left out. Are you bringing her up?}

{Her husband too.} Nella emerged, holding hands with a white-haired, careworn man. {He looks old.}

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard," she was saying as they approached. "My husband, Brandon Mueller. He's a concert pianist."

Something there were precious few of, any more. Jean-Luc smiled and shook hands, noting Brandon's firm grip. Nella's husband dressed conservatively as she did, in a deep blue semi-formal tunic and black pants. Yves pushed with his legs and squealed; Nella and Brandon flinched at the volume and shrillness.

"His son, Yves," Nella added. "He's very active."

"How old?" Brandon asked.

"Seven months. Come on, we'll go up and I'll introduce you to Dee."

"This is very impressive," Brandon said, gesturing around at the walls as he walked. "I've been on a number of ships since we were married, but this is the first time on a Sovereign."

"It gets small when you've been aboard for a few months at a stretch. Hello," Jean-Luc said to a lieutenant coming out of the lift.

"BweeeeEEEEEEH," said Yves, reaching for her.

"It's the uniform," Jean-Luc said. "He thinks you're one of his babysitters."

The lieutenant laughed and let Yves grab her finger. "You need another babysitter?"

"Register with Guinan. She conducts the interviews."

"I'll do that. Good night, sir." The lieutenant kept going. Yves twisted and tried to launch himself over Papa's shoulder after her.

"BAHJ!"

"You're not old enough to chase girls, settle down." Jean-Luc gave up on trying to contain him and put him on the floor. In the lift he couldn't go far once it was in motion. "Deck eight."

"Active isn't the word," Brandon said, watching the baby yanking on his father's pant leg. "I wish I had that much energy."

"Have you kept up with your music?" Nella asked as the short trip up one deck ended.

"Of course. We have a small ensemble on board that I've been playing in. Learning to read standard music notation and transpose it into the right key was a challenge." He caught Yves as he bolted for the opening door. "Can't even crawl right and he's that fast."

"I didn't know you wanted children." He thought he heard faint reproach in it.

"I didn't know I wanted them."

Jean-Luc put the baby on the floor of his quarters once the doors closed. While he introduced their guests to Deanna, Yves tried to help, "talking" at them while he tugged at Mama's skirt. Deanna became the perfect hostess as always, smiling pleasantly, but Jean-Luc saw the flicker of worry lurking in her eyes when she looked at him. She had changed into a brilliant teal dress and had already replicated a cup of tea for him. Inquiring what their visitors wanted and getting it for them, she stepped over Yves, who wiggled after her feet, yelling happily. She retrieved the stuffed targ from the nursery and propped Yves against Jean-Luc's leg, on the floor.

When they were all seated with drinks there was an awkward moment of silence, into which Yves spilled one-syllable witticisms and happy sputtering noises. He banged the stuffed targ against Jean-Luc's shin with single-minded determination and giggled at himself.

"Are you still the ship's counselor?" Nella asked brightly, turning to Deanna. She must have been confident of the answer.

"No, I moved on to first officer." Deanna said it as though it were as simple as making tea. "Although I'm still keeping up with psychology. I'm writing a paper on the psychological adjustments of young officers to crisis situations. Since my career change, I'm finding I have a different perspective on it."

"Really?" Nella edged forward on the sofa cushion and glanced at her husband. "That sounds quite the unexpected career path for a counselor."

"We excel at the unexpected. Are you going to be in the Gamma Quadrant for a few months, or is it a more permanent move?" Deanna sipped her hot tea and smiled down at Yves. She sat to Jean-Luc's left, turned to face him and their guests who sat at the other end of the couch.

"That depends. We've been moving around a lot since Brandon retired." Nella smiled fondly at her husband at the mention of his name. "Seeing some of the sights we hadn't taken the time to see while on Earth. We met while I was teaching. He hadn't been in space much before he met me."

"Pianos don't have warp engines," Brandon added with a guffaw. He obviously thought that was quite humorous.

"But they both need tuning from time to time," Deanna said, leaning and reaching for Yves, who chewed his toy's ear and twisted its forelegs. "Be nice to Mr. Tiggles, Yves."

"Bbthhpheeeb!" The targ bounced off her leg. Yves half-crawled off to explore the room, mostly dragging himself along with his arms. He pulled himself up on the pedestal under the table and sidled around it, taking wobbly steps, then plopped soundly on his rear. Unperturbed, he clapped his hands on opposing sides of the pedestal and made less articulate 'eh' sounds.

"He never stops, does he," Brandon commented.

"He'll wind down. Eventually." Jean-Luc sighed, taking another mouthful of tea. "I hope."

Nella watched Yves creep off toward a far corner. She noticed Jean-Luc looking at her and turned her attention to her cup. "I spent some time talking to your officers in stellar cartography. Quite a competent bunch of young officers."

And from there, the conversation revolved around stellar phenomena and the equipment used to measure it. Brandon bore it with the patience that said he was used to being an outsider in these things, and Deanna contributed a fair share of general observations as Jean-Luc did. Their familiarity with such things was based on experience, not actual knowledge of the finer details. Nella asked for specifics they couldn't give on things they'd seen.

Deanna asked Brandon about his musical career at an apparently-random point. Jean-Luc knew she probably sensed something that prompted the change of topic. The conversation shifted completely to music. Rather than sit idle through the technicalities of what was outside her expertise, Deanna gamely asked the 'stupid' questions, keeping the conversation on a less advanced level but on one she could comprehend. It seemed to animate Brandon; Jean-Luc realized while the pianist explained arpeggios to her, miming them with his fingers and sounding off the notes in perfect pitch, that Nella had fallen silent. Her eyes lingered on her husband wonderingly, as if not sure who he was.

Jean-Luc glanced at Deanna. As usual, she glowed, warm lights in her eyes and a soft smile in place. She wasn't really so interested in what Brandon was saying but he was too caught up in having a rapt audience to notice that. When she noticed Jean-Luc's scrutiny, she pressed her lips together to keep them from giving away amusement, waited for an end to Brandon's point, and took Jean-Luc's empty cup from his fingers.

"I'll put Yves to bed. He's asleep in the corner."

Everyone looked. Yves lay sprawled on his stomach on the carpet.

"We should be going," Nella said, putting her cup on the table. "It's late. Thank you for -- it's good to see you again. Maybe we could have dinner together some evening, since we're going to be aboard for a while longer."

Polite good-byes were said, and Jean-Luc watched them leave. Deanna didn't move to get Yves. They stood together as they had to say good night to their guests, until her fingers slipped around his. Their eyes met.

"He only looks old until you remind him of what makes him young," she said.

They shared a smile, and he pulled his hand out of hers and slipped his arm around her. "You think we'll have dinner with them?"

Her smile deepened to dimples. "No."

"Because of him, or her?"

"There's some discomfort, on both their parts."

"That makes three of us." Jean-Luc glanced at Yves, still slumbering on the floor, his dark eyelashes against his pale cheeks. "It's obvious that I don't have very much in common with either of them."

"I could say something about what you have in common, but there are better things to talk about," Deanna said, sly as she put her arms around his neck. "Like how much I like that cologne you're wearing."

"You do? My wife gave that to me."

"Smart lady, that Madame of yours." She leaned against him, lost her smile and glanced down. "Jean, you haven't been rearranging your anatomy when I wasn't looking, have you?"

"Oh -- that's a biscuit. I forgot about that. Guinan gave it to Yves in Ten Forward." He pulled it from the pocket and held up the gummy-edged cookie. Deanna chuckled at it as she took it to throw it away.

"The nonchalance of the experienced papa. I wonder what Nella would have done if you'd handed it to her."

"Don't care. This is your first reminder. You're supposed to make it up to me for removing the burbling baby from the room."

"Let me put burbling baby to bed and we'll talk about it."

But Yves woke when she picked him up. "Bapa," he whined, then fussed and threw his weight around, trying to get away from her. Jean-Luc held out his arms.

"It stands to reason, I suppose." Deanna carried him across the room and handed him over. "Papa's boy."

"Mama," Jean-Luc said, patting Yves' back.

"Mmbaaapa," he said, with less upset than before. He drooped against Jean-Luc's chest.

"Sorry."

"It's sweet, really. And, it'll give me time to get ready," she murmured, sidling in to kiss Yves' head, then Jean-Luc's cheek. "Any requests?"

"Surprise me."

Yves didn't fight the bedtime rituals but didn't want to be left alone in his crib. It took a lot of soft reassuring to soothe his whimpering. While smoothing the soft black hair over his son's head and humming, Jean-Luc thought about Nella, and Brandon's retirement, and their journey to the Gamma Quadrant.

Leaving Yves sound asleep and sprawled with Babbitt, the brilliant pink bunny that was Natalia's donation to the toybox, Jean-Luc whispered out the lights in the nursery, the lights in the living room, and found the bedroom lights at half-intensity. Deanna waited with her hair down and her eyes smoldering as she watched him approach. She wore, strangely enough, a standard issue shirt from a uniform.

The red undershirt he'd taken off earlier was gone from the back of the chair where he'd left it, he noticed. "You're wearing my shirt."

"So take it off me."

He sat with her, slipping a hand under to caress her firm abdomen. Now that she was back to routine mok'bara classes she'd lost the few pounds left over from having a baby. Her mouth tasted like ghelish, a Betazoid flavor that reminded him of raspberries. She had mouthwash flavored with it.

Unbidden, the thought of Brandon's focus on her popped into his thoughts. He banished it and cupped the back of her head in his hand, her hair twining around his fingers.

She pulled away from the kiss. "Jean-Fish?"

"I think too much," he said with a sigh, dropping his hand.

"Talk to Madame, then." Her fingers worked at the fasteners on his shirt.

"I don't want to talk."

"Either stop thinking, or start talking. It's that simple, moody fish. Because Madame wants your full attention to other matters and the sooner you get this out of your system, the better."

"And Madame always gets what she wants," he said, smiling as she removed his undershirt. She tossed it aside and stopped undressing him, sitting straighter on the edge of the bed.

"Does she?"

"You're closed to me right now. I don't know."

She shook her head, eyes closed, giving a resigned, sad smile. "If we're going to go through might-have-beens every time you see an old flame, maybe we should come up with a standard operating procedure."

"Dee, it's not about Nella. It's about Brandon Mueller. She told me about him back when she and I were together. She loved his music, his flair, his character -- he was famous for being meticulous about the places he played, the ambiance, the nuances of the music and how suited it was to the locale. He bordered on the obsessive when it came to music."

"And you think because he's retired and going with her on a journey to the Gamma Quadrant while she studies the intricacies of the Richter Expanse and the spatial anomalies therein, he's given up something that was so important to him?"

"I don't know what to think of him. He follows her where she goes, indulges her whim, and when he shows avid interest in what he's supposedly fanatical about, she looks at him like she doesn't understand that."

"And why would that bother you?"

"I have no idea. You're the shrink."

She fell across the bed and stretched, legs out and toes wiggling. "I was a shrink one hour, forty-four minutes, and some odd seconds ago. Then my melancholy sex toy, Captain Scarecrow, brought home an elephant and her husband, and I became a frustrated moon goddess in search of pleasure and finding only this."

He joined her, hands knitted over his stomach and looking at the ceiling. "I think we both need psychiatric help for coming up with such a convoluted mess of metaphors."

"I asked you once how you knew I was sane. You didn't take me seriously." She rolled and landed on him. His hands went to her hips automatically to reposition her. Nibbling, she found a spot she liked and bit his neck gently. "You taste good."

"You feel good."

"Mm. You have another growth in your pocket. I think I'll like it better than the last one."

"I think I'd like you to like it."

A swipe of her tongue across his lower lip. "How would I like it, do you think?"

"Maybe it's edible?"

"I'll find out. Be right back," she murmured, making her way down. He held on to the shirt and let her back out of it.

"Take your time, Deebird. Just. . . take. . . aahhh. . . ."

It was easy to forget everything. She knew how to make his body sing, and with the bond running as deep as it did, he knew as they took pleasure in each other she wanted this urgently. In the afterglow, with one foot off the side of the bed and a lazy, satisfied Betazoid on top of him and nuzzled up nose to nose, he chuckled and tugged at a curl.

"Beau poisson," she murmured, pushing her tongue in his mouth again. Long moments of leisurely push and shove later, he chuckled again.

"Amy?"

"If I let you believe it, will you do that again?"

"Oh. . . it's a wonderful idea, anyway. Sure you're not phasing?"

"Who needs the phase when I have you?" she whispered, grinding her hips against him.

"Cygne, there are certain reali -- oh -- "

"Reality is what we make it. Let me have your way with you."

"My way with. . . ."

"It makes perfect sense."

"I wasn't. . . questioning. . . just, could you, not. . . ."

"Stop?"

"Yes! No! Whatever. . . oh. . . ."

"Told you it made sense."

\---------------------

The following day at fourteen hundred hours, the nursery paged Jean-Luc -- Deanna was putting a group of cadets through a wringer, and Yves was bawling nonstop. As he left the lift on deck seven, he heard the muffled wailing from around the corner and down the corridor. It abated somewhat, but as he reached the door and it opened, Yves renewed his efforts.

The other toddler, a year-old girl in a pink pinafore, stood in a playpen watching the attendant with wide blue eyes, looking like she might cry herself. Today it was Malia taking her turn while Kenny was in school. She handed Yves over gladly.

"I don't know what it is," she said loudly while Yves howled into his father's uniform and flailed his arms. "I was going to take him to sickbay but I can't leave Sharon alone, and I thought you would want to be there anyway."

"Thank you." Jean-Luc hoped she read lips.

Yves wouldn't be comforted. Three decks and two sections later, he still sobbed and screamed by turns, though his volume had decreased somewhat. The nurse on duty almost leaped across the room to take him, and at once he got louder. Dr. Mengis emerged from his office and joined them.

The diagnosis was quick. Teething. Even after the appropriate measures were taken and he was discharged with numbed gums, Yves fussed, pulling his ear and trying to shove his hand in his mouth.

The bond Jean-Luc had with Deanna facilitated a secondary, and weaker, link with Yves, whose latent empathy hadn't yet asserted itself but could be tapped into with some effort. Jean-Luc knew leaving Yves in the nursery again would result in a screeching baby and another call -- he wanted reassuring. He took Yves home and put him on the floor, giving him one of Guinan's biscuits from a jar she'd left after her last babysitting visit.

Every time he tried to read reports, the baby fussed and eventually began to cry again. After many attempts Jean-Luc finally found something that would appease Yves. Unfortunately, it meant he would get nothing done. C'est la vie. Laying on the couch, his communicator and pips on the table where little fingers couldn't get them, Jean-Luc dozed off with Yves on his chest, waking each time the baby moved or sniffled.

The annunciator sounded. "Babajab," Yves murmured plaintively. He'd learned that one was supposed to talk when certain noises happened, though not what to say.

"Come." Jean-Luc sat up slowly, holding the whimpering baby in place.

Nella came in, hesitant and hardly looking at him after she saw the state of affairs. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"It's all right, he just decided today was a good day to cry." He smiled faintly at it, but she only looked bemused. Ah, well. "He's teething."

She looked around, then at the baby, avoiding his eyes. "Can we talk?"

"Have a seat. Of course we can."

She sat next to him, on the edge of the couch, hands on her knees. Today she wore her uniform, with three pips. She'd been promoted since the last time he'd seen her. There'd been a lot they hadn't covered last night.

"When I saw the wedding ring, I was surprised," she said. "Shocked. I suppose I thought you wouldn't do that while in space."

"Where else? I live in space."

Nella glanced away, her eyes finally coming to rest on a framed still shot sitting on the table, a picture of Deanna holding Yves when he was two weeks old. "She's very pretty."

"I think so. I have good taste, I've been told."

A brief smile at it. "You seem happy."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"She's your first officer. I thought they were supposed to go on away missions, into dangerous situations."

Jean-Luc soothed Yves' quiet groaning complaint, stroking his back repeatedly and trying to project calm. "She works very hard to excel in her career. It isn't my right to tell her what to do, as a husband."

"You love her," she said, half-questioning.

He met her gaze. The only sound was Yves, making a soft pleading 'mmm.'

"I'm sorry, that was stupid of me," she said at last, looking away again. "Of course you do. I knew better than that."

"I'm sure it must be disconcerting, considering the circumstances."

"I never expected to see you walking down a corridor with a child -- the last thing I thought possible was that he was your son, and that you'd married. Or so I thought. Finding that your wife was your first officer was the hardest of all."

"I understand that, believe me. It's not always easy, but it's not something I would willingly live without, now that I have it."

She nodded, meshing her fingers and resting her hands on her knee. "You've changed a great deal since I was aboard last. But it's good to see you still play. Have you ever mastered that piece you were working on?"

"I haven't played Mozart in a long time. The ensemble has been exploring the works of other artists, and we've been working on an original piece of mine."

"You're composing? That's wonderful," she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as they had once before, years ago, when he'd showed her his Ressikan flute. "Could I hear something you've written?"

He almost said no. But, inspiration struck him suddenly, and he smiled. "I've only written two pieces. The one our ensemble is working on hasn't been recorded yet, we're still practicing and revising parts, but the other is a solo. Unfinished, but I do have a recording, as far as it goes."

"I'd love to hear it."

"I'll be right back." He carried Yves with him to get his flute. As he returned from the bedroom, he offered her something to drink, remembering his manners. She declined. Since Yves seemed to be sleepy enough, he took the time to put him in his crib.

Returning from the nursery, he composed himself. Vastly different situation than the last time he'd played this flute for her, but no less disconcerting. "Computer, play 'Ode to a Swan.' Half volume." It sounded best that way, softly played. He closed his eyes and played harmony to himself, filling in intentional gaps in the music that he'd left open for improvisation. Forgetting his audience, he wove emotion and memory into the familiar refrains. He played on when the recording ended, thinking of Deanna last night, her polite welcome of their guests, her acceptance of all that could not be changed, and her eyes burning with desire.

The sense of Deanna's awareness of him and her approach brought the song to an abrupt end. Jean-Luc opened his eyes to find Nella watching him with wide, wondering eyes. Yves was silent. Sleeping, he hoped.

"I don't know what to say," Nella murmured. "I've never heard anything quite like it. The loose structure and the length of it. . . are the gaps in the recording intentional?"

"Yes, for me to fill in. You could call it organic. It evolves over time. Some of the refrains remain the same, especially the earlier parts of the piece, but I'm always adding to it."

"Organic would be the word, all right. It's beautiful, but there are some rough places, especially in the first up-tempo section -- it's a startling transition from the melancholy introductory piece. Have you thought of scoring it? Brandon would be happy to offer suggestions, I'm sure, he's an excellent composer."

"Writing it down would be the last thing I would want."

The door opened, and as he knew she would, Deanna came in. Her hair in disarray and her cheeks and uniform smudged with an unknown pale green substance, she took in the situation with her usual unflappable calm and smiled at Nella before turning to him.

"Yves?"

"He's teething. You probably already knew that. I just put him down for a nap. How was the maneuver?"

"We have a particularly talented crop of cadets, this time around. Having them on the lower decks running hull breach scenarios, combined with some youthful exuberance and a broken bag of chemical compound, made it interesting." She indicated the flute with her chin. "What were you playing?"

"'Ode to a Swan.' I consider it my magnum opus, so of course, I would want to show it off."

"Which tells me you're not being the captain this afternoon. I'm going to clean up so I can fill in on the bridge -- excuse me." She smiled at him and went in the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Nella raised an eyebrow. "It's truly an amazing piece, but magnum opus? I know you have a better grasp of musical composition than that. There's no unifying theme, it's long and the tempo changes wildly, the key changes in several places, and the gaps in the middle? A work in progress, yes, but I wouldn't think you might think of it as your best work."

"It's the way I wanted it. The way it should be."

Her tolerant smile made him want to laugh. "Frankly, Jean-Luc, you're making me wonder if you learned anything from what we did together."

Deanna emerged, once more clean and orderly, in uniform and her professional polite smile. "Did she like your magnum opus?"

"It's technically deficient. She suggested that I ask Brandon for help, since he's a composer."

Deanna grinned and squeezed his bicep. "Play your music the way you want to. I'll always be your audience, if no one else will be."

"The audience and the music, cygne."

"I'll be on the bridge. I'd stay, but the captain gets upset with me if I loiter when there's something else I should be doing."

"I should really have a talk with the man. He places unreasonable demands on you -- expecting you to be on the bridge when your son is undergoing the trauma of teething, what's wrong with him?"

She patted his shoulder. "He's really taking advantage of you, Jean. He knows I have a husband who will handle those concerns if he has to. See you after shift."

When she'd gone, Nella started to laugh, and seemed to struggle not to. He responded instead to Yves, who began to cry. In the process of picking up his son and comforting him, Jean-Luc forgot his guest until he turned to find her standing in the nursery door. She came in slowly, looking around at the decor, touching the stars and moons mobile over the crib.

"What a nice chair," she said, noticing the rocking chair beneath the viewports and going to look at it.

"Thank you. Not one of my masterpieces, but it serves its purpose."

She noticed the swan carved in the headboard as he spoke and went solemn. "You made this?"

"It was more difficult than the crib. I ruined a few good pieces of wood trying to get the rockers the right shape." He noticed at last, looking at her from the back, the streaks of gray in her hair.

"I never knew you could be so. . . ." Nella struggled for the right word, open-mouthed, and turned to look at him. "As close as we became, I never saw this side of you."

There were so many things that came to mind that he shouldn't say. "Perhaps it wasn't something I felt comfortable expressing then."

"But if you wanted children, if -- " She stopped when Yves sobbed.

Jean-Luc put him on the changing table, steadying him so he wouldn't fall over. "Wabaaaaa-aah," he cried, reaching with both arms for Papa. He fought every step of the diaper change, kicking and flailing and screaming.

"There are only certain circumstances under which I would have considered it. At the time, it was the last thing I would have imagined." He spoke over Yves' wails casually as he worked. "I never believed I would find someone who wanted to have my children, either."

Once diapered and dressed, Yves settled down to quiet pouting and sniffling. "Papa-aaaah," he half-sobbed.

"What did you do with that biscuit, hm? Here's a new one," Jean-Luc said, pulling another from the jar on the corner of the changing table. Yves took it with both hands and drooled copiously while gnawing, looking around. He saw the flute, one of his obsessions since Papa played it for him often and he wanted whatever someone else handled. He dropped the biscuit, falling over while reaching. Jean-Luc snatched the flute away.

Before the loss of the target upset the baby, Jean-Luc played a few low notes. Yves watched his fingers move, mesmerized by either the motion or the sound. Papa playing the movement written when Yves was born kept him distracted. Jean-Luc stopped when Yves began to bounce and hit his legs with his hands.

"You wrote that song for Deanna," Nella said. "I would have thought you would want to perfect it all the more, for that reason."

He picked up his son, enjoying the familiar weight of him and the bump against the chin. "It's already perfect. As much as I want it to be, anyway. I may change my mind about parts of the composition, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

"That's your prerogative I suppose."

"If it were for public consumption, I would be more concerned about technical merit." He smoothed Yves' shirt. "Has Brandon ever composed anything for you?"

Nella's face fell, and her gaze seemed to land on the container of baby powder he'd used. "Brandon can't play any more. He has a chronic infection, in the joints. He contracted it on one of his two interstellar tours, after we married. Some foreign bacterium he had an adverse reaction to -- they haven't found any way of eradicating it without causing him harm. He can only play for a short time before his knuckles swell. Rather than play only once in a while and poorly, he prefers not to play at all."

Jean-Luc kissed the top of Yves' head, hiding behind the gesture. "I'm sorry to hear that. I was actually hoping to hear him play."

"He might do it anyway," she said, wistful and smiling affectionately. "If only to impress Deanna. He's really quite taken with her."

He smiled wryly and sniffed. "Really?"

"You didn't notice? Actually, I think she reminds him of his first wife. Their daughter, Viola, has the same warm quality about her, too."

He recovered quickly, he thought. "Viola, after the instrument?"

Nella's amusement showed in her eyes. "Her mother played in an orchestra Brandon worked with for a time. When he left, she stayed, but Viola somehow manages to spend time with both. Lovely girl. Is something wrong?"

"I'm a little surprised he didn't mention having a child of his own. It seems to be a constant -- within four minutes of meeting someone new while holding Yves, they enumerate their offspring and launch into amusing baby anecdotes. Or unamusing ones they find amusing."

"It's been a long time since Viola was a baby." Nella brushed her fingertips down Yves' sleeve. "May I hold him?"

"Now that he's quiet? The doctor gave him something to ease the pain of teething. He's probably reacting to it."

She held him awkwardly, like someone who didn't usually hold children of any age. Yves didn't help. He pushed himself away and stiffened. "I don't think he likes me."

"He doesn't know what to make of you. He's about the right age to start being phobic of strangers. It's surprising -- he usually accepts people in uniform. Talk to him, he likes that."

"Yves, do you remember me? I was here last night. It's all right, don't -- "

"BWOAJHAB!" Yves backhanded her in the eye with his fist. Jean-Luc grabbed him away from her at once, an arm around his middle, letting him kick and flail at the air.

"Are you all right? He didn't mean to do that, he has terrible aim -- Nella?"

Holding her eye, she laughed, and kept laughing until she stumbled against the rocking chair. "Oh, I'm -- ss-sorry," she gasped. "It's just not every day that a baby asks me for that!"

It stunned him, then he caught it and laughed with her. They were still laughing at it five minutes later when Deanna's inquiry came. {What's going on? I can sense you all the way up here.}

{Our son just popped Nella in the eye.}

{And?}

{It's not easy to describe. You had to be here.}

{Which means you're too embarrassed to tell me. No matter, I'll get an answer out of you later.}

"I'm sorry," Nella said again, trying to catch her breath. "There's something so cosmically wrong about interpreting it that way. But it did sound like -- " She fought with herself over whether to say it or not.

"It wasn't, and he's said other things you could misinterpret as well. Which is why I still have my doubts about 'papa.' But he's not exposed to things like that, just to set the record straight."

"Bapajaba," Yves said, playing with his toes.

Nella stifled another giggle. Pulling her face straight, she tried to keep it that way. She said nothing, but followed him as he got a bottle from the replicator. She sat again on the couch with him while he fed the baby, the biscuit set aside for the moment.

"How did you know he was hungry?" she asked.

Jean-Luc smiled ruefully. "It's just time for him to eat." Explaining bonds and Betazoid mental disciplines wasn't something he preferred to do.

"I'm sorry," she said, so softly that he looked up at her.

"You don't have to keep apologizing. Babies do that. Not that exactly, but -- "

"I don't mean that. I know this may sound odd, given our circumstances. I wouldn't want to change the way things are now. I definitely don't want you to get the wrong idea. But I'm sorry that I insisted on leaving, without giving us a chance to work things out. You've obviously been able to do it with Deanna."

His mouth hung open for a while, as Yves sucked on the bottle he held and looked up at Papa's face. "I don't think it would have worked," he said at last. "I wasn't at a point that it might have. And, though we were quite intimate, we hadn't served together for long -- Deanna was with me for almost fifteen years as an officer before anything further developed. We had that relationship in place long before making the attempt."

Smiling sadly, she nodded. "I can see that would make a difference. It doesn't change the fact that you and I didn't make the decision together. Which, in itself, should prove that it wouldn't have worked."

Jean-Luc smiled at Yves; the baby threw the bottle and sputtered, swiping a hand at Papa's chin. "It doesn't prove a thing. Whenever I get in that mode of kicking myself over some mistake, Deanna reminds me that the best way to cope is to avoid repeating it. That's what mistakes are for, to learn from." He patted Yves' stomach. "Say 'mama.'"

"Baba."

"Mama."

"Ba, babammmBAH."

"Ma."

"Maa-aah."

Nella leaned forward unexpectedly. "Nella."

Yves stared at her, then flung his limbs out all at once, bringing his arms up to his face. "EEEEEH!"

"It never fails," she said with a sigh. "I have a face that makes babies scream. Viola's daughter does the same thing."

"Yves screams at people he knows, too." He busied himself with poking the biscuit in his son's mouth. It was a favorite game when Yves wasn't hungry -- put a biscuit in, he spit it out, poke his nose and put the biscuit back in, and watch Yves laugh. Yves ruined it by grabbing the biscuit on the third try and gnawing. Teething, and possibly the first sign that another gum-numbing was necessary.

Nella's hand fell on his wrist. "Jean-Luc?"

"How old is she?" he asked, looking at her again. "Your granddaughter, I mean."

Nella gazed at him, surprised, obviously at a loss.

"Is that why last night was so uncomfortable for you and Brandon? You didn't know how I would react to the mention of your family?"

She removed her hand. "That, and the fact that we were lovers. Yes. Brandon was somewhat taken aback by your having a child. . . ."

"At my age," he finished. "And that I have a wife young enough to be my daughter. He doesn't have to be uncomfortable on my behalf, Nella, I'm perfectly aware of these things, believe me."

A sheepish smile and shrug. "I'm sure you are. She's probably keeping you in fighting trim, come to think of it. I *am* curious what made you change your mind about children. You were pretty firm about that."

"That's not easily explained, in the same way my relationship with Deanna isn't easily explained. And, much to my eternal dismay, there are still counselors trying to do just that." He shook his head. "Being in command and married to my first officer only makes me fodder for the Fleet psychologists."

"I hadn't thought of that," she said, giving Yves his biscuit when he dropped it. "For some reason I thought at first that it wouldn't be allowed at all, but I supposed myself wrong. Otherwise you wouldn't be married, or you wouldn't be on the same ship."

"It was something of an exception, though we've never broken regulations. We endure what we must."

"You love her that much. She's very lucky." Nella eyed him. "Now, don't think that's wistful. I'm quite happy with things the way they are."

"I hadn't suggested otherwise. What's your granddaughter's name?"

"Helen. She's five now. It makes me wish sometimes that I'd had children of my own, but I can't imagine making my choices any differently. I should go. Brandon is probably wondering if I've fallen out an airlock. He worries about things like that -- he's not used to starships, still." She stood, smiling at father and son. "Is there a way to reserve a table in the lounge for dinner? If Deanna smiles at him again, Brandon might play, and even though he never practices he's still very good in spite of his belief to the contrary. Some things run bone deep, in the truly-talented."

"I'm the captain. I can get a reserved table anywhere I like. We'll meet in the reception room on deck three, section ten. It's small, and there's a piano, and we'll have dinner sent up at eighteen hundred. And I'll arrange for a babysitter."

"That sounds wonderful -- except, I hope you bring Yves. He's a stunning conversationalist." She smiled and quirked an eyebrow. "He has an awful lot in common with you, in fact."

Jean-Luc winced. Luckily, she left the room without further comment. Sitting Yves up on his lap, he studied his son's face.

"There are some things you don't say in mixed company."

Yves threw his biscuit down and chewed on his fingers, spit dribbling down his chin.

"And you don't ask married ladies for things like that."

"Eeebh," Yves said breathily, straining against his father's grip.

"Mama. Say Mama."

"Mm."

"Mama. Come on, you can do it. Ma-ma."

"Bubjab. Bwaja."

"Oh, Yves. . . please stop that. Your mother will never let me live that down!"

"Jabjabjabjab -- bwaja! Waba!"

Yves in one arm, Jean-Luc crossed to the desk for his comm badge. "Picard to Greenman."

"Greenman here, sir."

"Do you have time tonight to babysit?"

"BOJAHB!" Yves yelled, knowing the comm badge was for talking.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I already agreed to cover someone's shift for them. Um, sir. . . word's gotten around that he's teething. Just thought I'd mention it before you went through all the trouble of calling everyone. Um. . . is he. . . talking now, sir?"

"No! Picard out!" Jean-Luc held up his son. Yves kicked his feet, fussing a little, dribbling saliva down his chin. "Mama."

"Bojah," Yves replied moistly, a spit bubble popping.

"MA. Come on, say it. . . maaaaaah."

"Ba."

He checked the chron on his desk. Two hours before Deanna came home. "Yves, let me explain this to you. Mama isn't going to like that other word. Mama *will* like you to say 'mama.' If you just cooperate with Papa -- "

"Bapa!"

"Yes, that's better. Now mama. Come on. . . ."

Yves studied him with those eyes so like his own, wiggled and grinned happily, and cried, "Jab! Ab ab abab. Bwabab. Boahb."

Jean-Luc ran a hand over his head. "Yves, please? Mama?"

"Neee! Eeeeh!" The sound turned into an upset wail. He pawed his ear and jammed his fingers in his mouth.

"Sickbay, here we come," Jean-Luc sighed.

People glanced at him in the corridors, and the ensign riding in the lift with him winced at the volume and shrillness of his son's cries. After another treatment for Yves and the nurse's instructions on how to administer the topical anesthetic she gave Jean-Luc in the hope of everyone in the Picards' quarters having a chance of sleep that night, he took the long way home, seeking to soothe by way of constant movement.

As the new dose took effect, Yves began to 'talk' again. They passed smiling crew who waved and said hello. Jean-Luc was on his way back to their quarters when Deanna found them. She took the wiggly, happy baby and carried him the rest of the way, enduring a steady flow of babble in her ear and yanking of her hair.

"You're early," Jean-Luc exclaimed as they got home. "Anything notable this afternoon?"

"Not really, which is why I left Mendez in charge. You'll see the report soon enough. How is my sweet boy? Does your mouth hurt?"

"Bapa," Yves said, new runnels of drool emerging from the sides of his mouth.

"The doctor said the medication would make him drool more than usual. At least he's not screaming the way he was earlier."

"He still doesn't feel quite secure. Mostly happy, though. He knows something's going on and doesn't like the numbness. Were you talking to Nella earlier?"

Jean-Luc went to the replicator and hesitated over thoughts of dinner. "Yes. We're dining with them tonight, but if you're hungry now. . . ."

"I can wait." She came to him and rested her chin on his shoulder. "All right?"

He studied her solemn, dark eyes. "You remind him of his daughter."

Her gaze softened, and she laid a hand on his chest. Behind him, sitting on her hip, Yves hummed and mumbled to himself. "Jean-Fish, I love you."

"I know. I love you, more than -- " His throat hurt suddenly. Turning, he put his arms around his wife and son, face in her hair. "I'm sorry. I hate feeling it, every time I'm reminded."

"Don't."

"Yves almost said mama."

"Almost?"

They pulled apart, looking at their son. Yves pointed at Jean-Luc, his other hand tugging his ear. "Boahm. Mmm-hm."

"Mama," Jean-Luc exclaimed, hoping. "Come on."

"Jobo. Boam-mm-m."

"Papa," Deanna put in helpfully.

"Mm-mmn." Yves bounced a few times and looked thoughtful.

"Papa."

"Bojab!"

Deanna looked at Jean-Luc, puzzled but not displeased. "He wasn't saying 'bo' before. It's amazing how he suddenly started picking up all these new syllables this week."

"Mama," Jean-Luc urged.

"Bwoja-ahb." The hiccup in the middle didn't help. "Ba ba ba ba. . . ."

Deanna gaped at their son, while Jean-Luc held his breath. She closed her mouth slowly, then her eyes as she bowed her head and tried not to laugh. Peering at Jean-Luc out of one eye, she trembled with the effort.

"If we react to it, he'll do it more," she gasped. "Oh -- this isn't what happened earlier with Nella, is it? Oh, Jean, tell me he didn't!"

Jean-Luc shrugged. "Wish I could. At least she thought it was amusing. It's a good thing, I haven't been able to find a babysitter."

It made most of her amusement vanish. "You just haven't asked the right people."

"Everyone knows he's teething. I have the feeling we'll have an all-time high of on duty crew."

She handed him the baby, who chanted 'ba-ba' and waved his hand as he'd been doing since his grand pronouncement. "I'll reschedule someone. Whether they like it or not. I refuse to endure dinner with one of your ex-girlfriends and a baby chanting about. . . that."

As she turned away to contact prospective babysitters, Jean-Luc headed for the nursery for something to wipe his son's face. "She did say he took after me."

"That goes without saying," Deanna shot back.

He hesitated in the door and glanced back at her. "I have not said *that word* since the baby was born."

"Only because I know well enough when you want one. Which would be just about any time you can get one." She grinned and winked.

"Brat."

"Bwaaah!" Yves added.

Sighing, Jean-Luc continued on the journey for a baby wipe. {I can see we have a bright child. Time to start writing lectures.}

After wiping Yves' face at the changing table, Jean-Luc held up his son. Little arms bobbed, bouncing off his wrists on the down swing, and Yves looked around as if wanting to know why he was up here and when he was coming down. He pointed with both hands at Papa's face, then stuffed his left hand in his mouth, renewing the drool supply he apparently wanted to keep on his chin.

"Papa loves you, Yves. No matter what you do."

Yves looked him in the eye and reached, tiny fingers splayed. "Papa."

Jean-Luc brought him down to his chest and kissed his cheek. "Beau petit," he whispered into the black curls.

"Bojah-aaaahb."

Sighing heavily, Jean-Luc headed toward the door. "Any luck with a babysitter, Deebird?"


End file.
